


I Can't Stop Thinking About You

by PreludetoElysia



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F, Gun play, I write filth, Masturbation, Post Season 2 Finale, Smut, baby eve is a mess, don't binge drink please, except not really, fantasies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:21:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23833792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PreludetoElysia/pseuds/PreludetoElysia
Summary: Eve lets out some of that long-unresolved sexual tension. Or at least tries.
Relationships: Eve Polastri/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova
Kudos: 21





	I Can't Stop Thinking About You

She probably shouldn’t be doing this.

The memory plays over and over again in Eve's mind, helplessly stuck on repeat. A face, twisted in confusion and anger. Dressed in red. The red of her own hands, caked into the creases of her palms. Eve turns around, and then she cannot hear anything. Dirt and dust gather around her nostrils and lips, before everything shuts down. It rewinds again, a cassette tape settled in the depths of her being. Unfurling itself.

No, she _definitely_ shouldn’t be doing this.

In her dreams, Villanelle is untouchable. Just out of reach, blurred at the edges, disguised. Almost unrecognizable, if not for the feelings that she evoked. Eve wakes up sweaty and disconcerted. It has been weeks, but not long enough to forgive herself.

In her fantasies, Villanelle bends her over. Folds herself against her back, holds her neck and breathes her in. Tells her terrible things. Fucks her. Calls her ‘ _darling_ ’, and kills for her, again.

Eve’s imagination rouses when she closes her eyes. The images do not waver, nor does the hand at her cheek. This is what you wanted. She settles over the haphazard sheets of her bed, returning her glass of wine to her nightstand. Fingertips lightly trail up her stomach, underneath an oversized shirt. They trace the swell of her sore breast, then curl around her and squeeze roughly. She sighs into the darkness. Pulls her curls from their elastic. Relaxes.

They all end the same way.

What would Villanelle do to her, if she saw her again? Will she ever see her again?

Eve decides she doesn't want to.

And now she feels the barrel of a gun, one conjured by herself. It travels through the pads of her fingers, pressing against the soft skin of her neck. Her Villanelle slides it behind her ear, a tickle. Slides it under her chin. Against her thyroid. It moves further down and across her collarbone, until she finds it.

Risen skin, about the size and shape of a penny. Healed enough to just sting when irritated.

She isn’t sloppy, even after just finishing her third glass. Her Villanelle pushes past the waistband of her sweatpants, past the band of her underwear. Fingertips rake through dark wiry hair, attack her sensitive clit. She will not last long. Not with this heat, the unbearable fever of anger and loneliness.

Her Villanelle stares down at her, bears her teeth. Tells her to hurt herself where she needs it most.

Eve pokes at the healing wound, and throbs against both of her hands. She is wet, absurdly so. She brings her wet fingers to her mouth and sucks. She tastes sweeter than usual.

Somewhere deep inside, she likes to think Villanelle is watching her. Maybe she is.

She tried to get over it. Tried to bury it into the deepest parts of her and leave it to decay. But every time she closes her eyes she sees the red bloom again, and she feels like throwing up.

Tight, quick circles.

To be fair, she was getting better. The alcohol helped dull the ache, along with any of the stupid overrated television series that have hundreds of repetitive episodes designed to waste your time. It, _Villanelle_ , would run its course. She just needed to push it out, exhaust her feelings and body so that eventually she would vanish altogether.

She drags her nails up her side harshly, before deciding to grip the sheets instead. Villanelle whispered to her, teased her. _You were wrong to tell me "no"_. Kissed her cheek and thrust herself inside.

Faster, yet.

When she comes, she hitches up and whimpers. Clenches around the fingers that are only her own. Only ever her own.

Eve wipes her fingers clean. She glances once at the window, but she is alone again.

She reaches for the wine.

**Author's Note:**

> forgive me


End file.
